Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Man, the Women Were So Much Hotter When I Was a Curmudgeon

Ebenezer Scrooge here. I bet you're wondering what became of me after the events of A Christmas Carol. I want everyone to know that I followed the path of goodwill and kindness that I set out upon. I became a kinder, better person who showed mercy and charity towards his fellow man. And I'm here to tell you that I regret every minute of it, because the tail is so much juicier when you're a rich and powerful bad ass who hates on everybody and everything.

It was well known among the rest of the London financial community that I was a first class pussy hound. Before I was visited by the Christmas ghosts, my nickname was E-Screw. I would chase anything with a skirt, but believe me when I tell you, your boy never had to settle. I wined, dined, and 69ed London's finest trim. It was the rare morning that I didn't wake up and open up the curtain to my king-size Victorian bed to see three or four strippers and an 8-ball strewn about on the floor. It was ridiculous, man. Just ridiculous. I was bringing home dime pieces every night of the week.

I tell you, my good man, the poot was ever-present and free-flowing!

All that stopped when I got the visit from the spirits. They focused more on my avarice, but I could tell they were pissed about the sex, too. If you remember the story correctly, the Ghost of Christmas Past took me to see myself as a schoolboy. Well, when we were walking through the courtyard, she caught me staring at my old school marm's ass for like thirty seconds. When she made a comment about my wandering eyes, all I did was point to my junk and say, "Sorry, baby doll, but you ain't tall enough to ride this roller coaster." She looked all disgusted, but I think I kind of pushed her buttons, to tell you the truth. But as the whole ordeal got more serious, I quit with the innuendo. Around the time we saw Tiny Tim, I stopped referring to my dick as "An Undigested Bit of Man-Beef."

I had so much money, bitches would literally throw themselves at me. I'm going to clue you in on a little secret: I have no idea what it is I did or do. All I know is I get a lot of money to do some financial consulting, or banking, or something like that. Cratchit handles all the paperwork. For all I know, we just counted money all day. Whatever. As long as it kept the whores coming back, I wasn't complaining. Now it's all gone. The money, the women, the power. Gone and replaced by me buying the Cratchit's shitty toys on Christmas.

I know it's nice for your soul to be warmed over by the enrichment of another man's family, but Jesus, it'd be nice to dip my wick in a dime every now and then. It's all well and good to have an unblemished soul, but it doesn't do much to help your sex life. The ladies were much more attracted to me when I had unmitigated and unrivaled power. It's an incredible aphrodisiac. I'll give you an example: just about every time I fired somebody, I made sure to have a trick in my office while I did it. Every single time I did it, I would end up getting blown. I called it a pink slip beej. It was glorious. It got so addictive I had to stop. Why do you think it was just me and Bob Cratchit in the office?

I got this one rival accountant in bed one time by feeding mice to my boa constrictor right in front of her. See, but I had to give all that awesome kind of stuff up. If the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come ever saw me pulling that shit, it's back into a fiery grave for me. If you think I changed my ways out of some sense of goodness, don't. It was all out of fear. I don't care how good it feels to get your knob shined by some Asian nurse, it's not worth burning alive. They haven't invented a blow job that feels good enough to justify getting your ass hair singed nightly.

Look at what happened to Jacob Marley. Don't get started on how many depraved threeways I had with that sickee and some intern. That was one deviant goose right there. Talk about an absolute bukakke fiend. Now he's walking around with chains and he can't get rid of them. Goes to show, you have to change while you can. By the way, I was a little skittish about having a menage with him seeing as that I'm straight, but it wasn't gay or anything; our dicks never touched.

Sometimes I wish I could go back to my old ways. Especially with the way Tiny Tim has developed. He's a teenager now, and he's turned into a whiny bitch. I still feel sorry for the fact that his legs are for shit, but he complains about everything. He's very angsty. He wears a lot of black clothes and is forever mouthing off to Bob. He was cool for a couple years, but once he hit thirteen he just turned into the Douchemaster General. After all I've done for that that little prick, I would sell all my stuff and move to Zimbabwe if he thanked me just one time. I can't take him anywhere without him bitching a fit about something. I took him to a play a couple weeks ago and I almost struck the bastard.

Where am I now? I ended up getting back together with Belle. She's like 78 now. It's all good, because I know I can trust her with my paper, but I'm not really feeling the frumpiness. All in all, I'm glad that I'm not going to be chilling with demons for all time, but it's hard when I reminisce about the old days. I just wish there was some way to know whether or not there was an after life, so I could go back to being all about money and whores.

Oh well. In the mean time, just in case the Christmas spirits read this blog, may you and your family spend the holiday dining on a succulent Christmas goose!

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